


Be careful what you wish/apply for

by Isaac_Molotov



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, College AU, F/M, Flashback Inception, Goddamned Academic Pining, M/M, Shocking nudity!, Soggy Canapes, The mildest smut in the smut aisle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isaac_Molotov/pseuds/Isaac_Molotov
Summary: It's all fun and games until you actually get the grant money





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> College AU Crozier, Fitzjames, and Franklin shamelessly cribbed from Ias.

When their first emails to potential co-investigators were returned with firm – warm, even – acceptance, Francis was dumbstruck.

When their application for funding from the Arctic Research Foundation was successful, he had to read the official letter twice.

And, when the Canadian Coast Guard contacted them with details of the CCGS Wilfrid Laurier’s summer cruise schedule and news they’d secured a berth, he finally allowed himself to panic.

The project was ludicrous, of course, coming to James at one in the morning after too many gin sodas on his part, and too much coffee on Francis’. _One Warm Line: A historically-contextualized approach to Arctic Exploration in the (Post)Modern West._ James had come up with that, too. In fact, Francis was not altogether sure what his role in conceiving this utterly harebrained scheme had been. He – like many a startled-looking graduate student newly bestowed with a seemingly insurmountable thesis topic – had merely been bundled along by James’ unsinkable disregard for what the rest of the world found reasonable.

It was like this – hand poised over wireless mouse, jaw clenched, eyes wide, and heart beating a Scotch jig – that James found him, striding into Francis’ office aglow with triumph.

“Ahoy the Principal Investigator!” he said, hitting Francis with the full wattage of his smile. “I can see by your thrilled expression you’ve checked your email.”

Francis swallowed. “I have.”

“And?”

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose hard and made an effort to breathe slowly and deeply. “I don’t know, James. In a moment of complete insanity, I agreed to chair the Faculty’s workplace mental health committee starting this March…”

James snorted.

“…and I must get some work done on my application for full professorship. The deadline falls in August, right in the middle of the cruise.”

“Exactly!” James crossed to Francis’ desk and closed his ageing laptop. “You need to show that committee you’re not stuffy Dr. Crozier, entombed in his office with his nose in some dusty old book…”

“That reminds me, James, my copy of the Fifth Thule Expedition…”

“No,” James continued. “You’re _Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier_ , thinker of bold thoughts! Writer of successful grants! And all with an active program of fieldwork that takes you into the world’s most remote and secret places! You know, Francis, we should start a vlog.”

Francis groaned and dragged a rough palm across his face. “I suppose you’re right about the promotions committee…”

“Of course _,_ I am! Just think: six months from now, we’ll _be_ _there_ , Francis. All that reading, all those late nights dreaming of it. We’ll breathe the air that Rae breathed. And Ross. And Rasmussen.”

“And about a million Inuit, who don’t have a single plaque in Westminster Abbey between them, despite successfully surviving in the place every damned day of their lives for a thousand years.”

Somehow, James’ grin became even brighter. “You see! That’s just the insouciant spark of critical theory that impressed the grants committee, I’ll stake my pension on it.” He leaned even farther over the desk, bracing himself with his left hand, and placing the right on Francis’ shoulder. “I knew I could depend on you.”

Francis, whose physical comfort zone was rapidly becoming anything but, prevented himself from covering James’ hand with his own by using it to open his laptop, instead. He avoided James’ eyes, pondering his desktop image of _The Arctic Council of 1851_.

“We’ll see,” he finally said. Before pointedly looking toward the door.

It was only after James had left that it hit him. As far as he knew, his cumbersome and somewhat embarrassing middle names appeared nowhere in his CV, publications, or departmental website. Nowhere.

How the hell did _James_ of all people…?

*******************************************************

As a result of their successful application, James and Francis had both received invitations to the University’s _Evening of Excellence_ , a function Francis was convinced administration had invented to punish faculty for the teaching easement that came with their grants.

The event was in a reception hall on campus that Francis had never even heard of, let alone been in, but James had agreed to meet him ahead of time and walk with him there. Sharp to the agreed-upon hour, James strode into Francis’ office and immediately cast the planned acerbic-but-airy greeting from his lips.

Francis had always, in his beating heart of hearts, known that James was the type of man who owned at least two (2) well-tailored suits with matching shoes stowed primly in garment bags somewhere behind all those crisp Oxford shirts and almost-but-not-quite-too-tight trousers. This knowledge, however, did nothing to prepare Francis for the reality of James Fitzjames: Evening Formal.

All of the wiring below his brainpan seemed to have sizzled to a halt at the sight, although miraculously, he managed to stand. Meanwhile his mind drifted into a completely unpublishable treatise on the phenomenology of that… that everything. That artfully tousled, likely very soft hair, that nipped waist and those slender hips barely kissed by the fabric of his dark jacket and trousers, that faint scent of cologne and, well _James_ that had wafted in when the door opened.

A twinkle in James’ eye made him very aware that he’d been staring – and caught staring. With a cough he composed himself.

“I didn’t realize it was suits and ties tonight,” he said in a useless effort to cover the gaffe.

James laughed, “Clearly. Is that really what you’re wearing?”

Francis looked down at his perfectly serviceable checked shirt, tweed coat, and rumpled khakis. “What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like you’ve just held up a thrift shop, Francis. And not a very nice one. What if we have to get up and give speeches?”

“If I have to give a speech, James, you’ll have bigger problems than my clothes.”

“At least take my tie.”

“I don’t need a bloody tie,” Francis protested, but James was already reaching up to his own neck. He unthreaded the garment in question and popped open the top two buttons on his shirt. Much to Francis’ alarm, instead of simply handing him the blasted thing, James approached him, and set to his collar, buttoning and folding it up. As James looped the line of silk around his neck, Francis hoped very much that his bobbing Adam’s apple and pounding pulse were less obvious than they felt.

After deftly completing a half-windsor at the hollow of his throat and folding his collar to, James’ knuckles lingered warmly against Francis’ collarbone. Their eyes met and locked in a silent exchange that felt more like a violation of privacy than a look. James swallowed, the muscles in his throat gliding between starched ends of his collar. Francis swallowed, and winced at the unaccustomed constriction around his neck. He brought his hands up to loosen the knot, but James clasped them in his before he had the chance. They stood like that for a moment that felt to Francis like an age of Man, before James broke the silence.

“It’s silk, Francis. You’ll wrinkle it.” He released him, smiled, and strode toward the door, looking over his shoulder to be sure his stunned colleague was following.

********************************************************************************

The hors d’oeuvres were soggy, the bar was open, and damned Dean Franklin was there – the night seemed contrived to put Francis in a foul mood.

Watching James take to the occasion like a platypus in a pond lifted his spirits somewhat, although he would rather have survived from this day to his last on nothing but flat Perrier and these goddamned canapés than admit it to another living soul.

An inopportune break in the crowd brought Francis into direct eye contact with his Dean. It was no use pretending he hadn’t seen him, Franklin was already sailing in his direction under the flag of a goofy, fake grin with several strangers in tow. His escape was blocked by a wall to his rear, a knot of tipsy postdocs to his left, and, suddenly, James to his right.

“Be nice, Francis. You know he means well.”

“Do I?” Francis managed in a whisper before the small party was upon them.

“Ah! James, Francis! The stars of our departmental newsletter! Here are some people I’d like you to meet. It would seem you’re not the only two intrepid explorers with designs on the passage!”

“Jesus Christ,” Francis muttered. James disguised his sharp nudge to Francis’ ribs as a near spill with an overfull glass of punch.

“How delightful!” James beamed, taking a sip.

“This,” Franklin said, gesturing toward a mild-looking, youngish man whose eyes were almost completely obscured by a riot of dark curls and a pair of unfashionable wire-framed glasses, “is Dr. Goodsir, from Zoology. You do something with bears, am I correct?”

The man gave them a hesitant smile. “Very nearly. I’m writing my dissertation on persistent organic pollutants in the Arctic’s apex predators. Including polar bears. Although,” he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “I should point out, it’s _Mr._ Goodsir. Harry, in fact. I’m not, strictly speaking, a doctor. Not until after my defence, anyhow – providing all goes well.”

Franklin slapped him on the back, launching a greasy spring roll off the Styrofoam plate in his hands. “I’m sure it will, son. I’m sure it will. You and my colleagues here will be shipmates this summer, Dr. Goodsir, along with this chap,” Franklin put his hand on the shoulder of a man with the face of a Byzantine saint, save the clenched jaw and close-cropped beard. “Er…what was your name again?”

“Irving,” the man said, shaking hands first with James, then with Francis – hesitating only a moment when he felt the palpable waves of annoyance radiating off the second man. “John Irving, Department of Anthropology. I’ll be conducting participant-observation among the ship’s compliment to ascertain the effects of diminished privacy, disturbed circadian rhythms, and close quarters – ‘forcedtogetherness’, I call it – on moralities and interpersonal relationships within and between the moieties of crew and researchers.”

There was a pause as the group digested the jargon, some quicker than others.

“Stop me if I’m incorrect, John Irving, Department of Anthropology, but did you just say that you’re going to spend the entire six-week cruise of the Wilfrid Laurier studying _us_?” Francis asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Capital idea!” James exclaimed, placing a hand on Francis’ shoulder. “And not very far off the mark of our own research, although _we’ll_ be taking a Frankfurt School approach to national and transnational ideologies expressed through militarism in a resource-rich hinterland – contextualized within the Arctic’s rich history of colonial imagination, of course. And, we’d intended to confine our interest to members of the crew – specifically command – and possibly our media compliment. How very saucy of you to throw your colleagues under the lens. You’ll have to let me know if you ever figure this one out,” he said, giving Francis’ shoulder a squeeze, “Lord knows I haven’t.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The flight from Heathrow to Gander was uneventful. James, blessed by the Lord with the skill and inclination to fall asleep in a metal tube thirty thousand feet in the air, dozed behind his blue satin eye-mask. Francis, beside him in the window seat, distracted himself from the pretzel bite caught in his teeth, James’ kittenish snoring, and the itching of his pressure hose by prodding his demons.

Both of them.

It had been a mere two days before their departure. Francis was only in the office to pre-sign a dozen weekly time sheets for Jopson and pick up his copy of Boas’ _Central Eskimo._ Heading to the department office to check his mail one last time, he’d run into Dean Franklin, chatting idly with their admin, John Bridgens. He’d barely managed to stifle a whispered curse as Franklin crossed the room and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Dr. Crozier! I was hoping we’d cross paths before your little trip!”

“Dean Franklin,” he nodded, resisting the urge to shrug.

“If you’re not in too much of a rush, Francis, I’d like to have a quick word with you.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper that, if anything, was louder than his regular speech, “In private. Meet me in my office in,” he glanced at his watch, “five minutes?”

No excuse presented itself, so Francis had merely nodded again, before slipping out from under Franklin’s grasp, mail unchecked. Nothing could be _that_ urgent.

Downstairs, in the second-floor bowels of the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Crozier rapped twice at the carved slab of oak that served as Dean Franklin’s door.

“Come!”

Francis pushed the door open and felt his feet sink into the plush carpet Physical Plant reserved for the offices of the lofty.

“Francis,” Franklin said, looking up from his computer, two index fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Please, sit.” He waved toward a red velour-upholstered chair next to the door.

“If it’s all the same to you, Sir John, I prefer to stand. This time Wednesday, I’ll have twelve hours of sitting ahead of me, and I swear I can already feel it.”

Franklin laughed, “ _Sir John_. If I ever get a letter addressed to ‘Sir John’, I know it’s either from you, my wife, or the bank.” He shrugged. “Stand if you like, although you may change your mind.”

Francis’ brows knit as Franklin pressed on.

“I was speaking to Bridgens earlier, and he tells me you’re applying for promotion.” Francis’ stomach lurched as Franklin sighed and shook his head. “Francis, you’re a perfectly acceptable associate professor-"

“I-“

“Allow me to finish. Perfectly acceptable. But, I’m afraid that is all. You’re simply not cut from the full professor bolt, Francis. I’m sorry, but you deserve to know the truth. Two stress leaves in five years, Francis? And only three publications in the same stretch? I wish you could see yourself as I do, and be happy with what you have, but sometimes, Francis, I swear you’re on a mission to make yourself miserable."

Francis took a deep breath, held it, and mentally counted to ten before answering.

“I didn't realise I was asked here for a defence, Dr. Franklin, but I accept. I feel compelled to point out that, in your tally of my achievements, you’ve omitted the fact that I have just secured our department’s first external funding in a _decade_. As for publications, _Arctic_ has just accepted my paper on Rasmussen and white tribalism in polar research-“

“With major revisions.” Franklin held up his hands when Francis looked as though he might reply. “No, Francis. Please don’t make this more difficult than it already is. I will _not_ support your application, and without my support, you will be wasting both our time. Focus on your research, Francis. Perhaps the fresh air will do you some good.”

Francis’ jaw twitched. He forced himself to merely unclench the fist he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, turn on his heel, and wordlessly exit the room.

Because the day had not already been a complete disaster, he exited the room right into Dr. Sophia Cracroft, sending a stack of papers flying and his hearty ‘Fucking Christ!’ bouncing off the walls.

“Francis?! I thought you were-.” Her frown vanished as she caught the look in his eyes. “Good Lord, Francis, you look like someone’s just asked your opinion on Robert Peary. What on earth… Oh no.” She looked up at the Dean’s door. “What did he say to you?”

In the library of Francis’ mind, the volumes on Sophia Cracroft sat on a very high shelf, indeed. Out of the way, unbothered – except, apparently, when he felt like dwarfing some other, more minor discomfort – but very much _there_.

They’d first met nearly eight years ago, at a history conference in Hobart. Francis, freshly tenured, was co-chairing a session on decolonising methodologies. Sophia, who he learned was in the midst of a PhD in gender studies, was there to give a paper on re _matriating_ oral histories. They’d both wound up in the same tourist trap bar drinking overpriced Foster’s, and Francis had forgotten to take off his conference badge. They fell to talking, and he found his opinion of her blossoming to fill the room. Somehow, she managed to have both the wisdom of years and the spark of youth, all neatly wrapped in a short blue dress that had to require some kind of weapons permit.

He’d followed her around for the rest of the week like a love-sick puppy. On their last evening together, they’d snuck into the old Beaumaris Zoo, ostensibly to ghost-hunt for thylacines. They hadn’t made it past the aquatic section before sparks (and suddenly-obtrusive articles of clothing) began flying. The memory of lying there on the cold concrete of an empty pool, panting in her arms afterward, had once been a fond one.

Then he’d received the email.

They’d kept in touch, of course. Francis had reluctantly opened a Facebook account, Twitter account, and, God help him, Instagram account for the express purpose. Somehow, though, she’d managed to hide her application – which turned out to be a successful one – for an assistant professorship in Women's and Gender Studies at his own bloody university. People whispered, of course, that her uncle’s position – a mere chair of the history department at the time – had helped. Knowing them both, Francis’ quietly-held opinion was that, if one owed thanks to the other for their success in academia, the roles were likely reversed. Through a series of unwontedly Machiavellian tactics, Sir John had achieved the dean’s office shortly after Sophia’s arrival five years ago. Although, the influence of Jane Franklin, comfortably ensconced as a spousal hire in Fundraising, could not be dismissed, either.

Whatever the case, the email announcing the new hire had been the first domino in a long line of whiskey bottles, clandestine kisses, foolish four a.m. texts, and ultimately, heartbreak that had led to his first breakdown and an involuntary leave of absence. Kindly, they’d announced it as a ‘stress leave’, rather than a ‘Human Resources Disaster Leave’.

It took him twenty-one days to dry out enough to hold a laser pointer straight.

It took him the better part of four years to trust himself enough to add texting back to his mobile plan. And that had only happened after several weeks of James complaining about his (carefully curated and intentionally full) voicemail inbox. The same man who had unknowingly sent him back to the bottle and a second ‘stress leave’ almost a year prior, ironically enough. At least, he thought gratefully, he hadn’t been able to text.

Two days ago, he’d merely shaken his head slowly, his jaw tight, and walked past Sophia, angry thoughts jostling each other for precedence. He was just crossing the threshold of the Rose and Crown when his mobile buzzed.

A text from James.

A photo, in fact.

Francis’ pulse quickened as he punched in his passcode and opened the message.

It was a selfie (“Of course”, Francis thought, smiling and rolling his eyes) taken in a full length mirror. James was clad from head to toe in blaze orange Gore-tex and polar fleece, eyes hidden behind a mirrored pair of wrap-around Oakleys. Where on earth had he found blaze orange Oakleys?

His phone buzzed again in his hand.

_How do I look?_

Francis thought for a second and typed.

_Like a traffic cone_

Three dots, and then another green bubble.

_Srsly?_

Francis’ grin broadened.

_Seriously, James. I think I can hear that outfit from here_

James, again.

_Where u?_

Francis winced, only half at the grammar.

_Heading home_

With that, he’d set off back into the night to make it true.

Discretely looking along his shoulder toward the middle seat, Francis made sure that James was still safely asleep before pulling out his phone, guiltily taking it off airplane mode, and opening the image quite probably for the fiftieth time. He nearly threw the damn thing over the seat in front of him when the flight attendant announced their descent over the Tannoy. As it was, he barely managed a return to lock screen before James peeked out blearily from behind his mask.

“Is that the snack cart, Francis?”

“No, James. We’re nearly there. Put your seat up.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a trope if there's two bunks, right?

Their connecting flight from Gander to St. John’s was also uneventful, save in that it happened at all. Francis had left travel and accommodations in the capable hands of his eager-to-please master’s student and TA, Thomas Jopson. So, when he’d received Air Canada’s email confirming his and James’ itinerary, he’d been very confused, indeed. Rather than a direct flight from Heathrow to St. John’s, Jopson had booked them via Gander, saving the grant absolutely zero funds, and adding two interminable hours to the time he had to spend with his left knee frustratingly close to brushing James’ right.

When confronted, Jopson merely put the mistake down to a long night writing his lit review. But, then he’d… _twinkled_ was the only word Francis could find for it. Yes, that damned lad had twinkled at him, and Francis began to wonder whether he was better off booking his and James’ own travel until he could throw a decisive spanner into the works of the student rumour mill.

The extra leg meant that, by the time he and James had collected their luggage – a substantial burden in James’ case – and made their way to the Canada Coast Guard building on New Gower Street, Francis could have eaten a horse and slept in the hide.

As it was, they’d merely been presented with ID badges, boarding documents, and instructions to head down to Harbour Drive via Bishop’s Cove, take a left, and walk until they found their vessel.

“Can’t miss it!” the cheery man behind the reception desk had said, “Red and white with yellow bits. Says, ‘Sir Wilfrid Laurier’ on the side.”

The directions were of some help, although red and white appeared to be the preferred colour scheme of the Canadian Coast Guard. With each vessel they approached, Francis’ hopes for a soft bed and some warm food were lifted, only to be dashed as James’ keener eyes made out some other name.

“Sir Wilfred - ” James said hopefully, squinting in the morning sun, “- Grenfell. Sorry, Francis. Perhaps it’s the next one.”

It was not the next one. Nor, indeed, the one after that. But, eventually, there it was, red and white and yellow against a clear blue summer sky. They presented their credentials at the pier’s gate, and were waved in as it opened with an electric hum. On boarding, they were met by a deckhand who promptly called for the ship’s steward, a slight, somewhat ferrety man with a red goatee, who introduced himself as ‘Hickey’. He took them below deck and walked them to one of several doors off a narrow passageway. He opened the door with a flourish, and gestured at the cramped, but comfortable accommodations within.

“Be it ever so humble,” he said, with a cheeky grin and an unmistakeable whiff of Essex in his voice.

“Right,” said Francis, unshouldering his duffel and entering the room, “I’ll take this one. See you in a couple hours, James.”

Hickey coughed politely. “I’m afraid there’s been some… _reorganisation_ of the berths. The _Amundsen_ is delayed in the St. Lawrence – turns out her plumbing is worse than Flint’s. Lead in the water tanks, lead in the sealant, lead in the paint. I mean, lead contamination on an Arctic research vessel? What’s the worst that could happen, am I right? Anyhow, it all has to come out, so we’ve taken on a couple of her researchers. Ice nerds, mainly. And you two,” Hickey flipped through some paperwork on his clipboard before pausing to read, “are listed on the manifest as ‘shared berth acceptable’.”

Indeed, there were two narrow bunks set into the bulkhead before them. Francis mused briefly on whether he would fire Jopson and _then_ kill him, or avoid the paperwork and simply throttle him without warning at their next thesis meeting.

Hickey interrupted his reverie, “On the other hand, if the two of you prefer a single bunk, I’m sure arrangements can be made.” He smirked unpleasantly, “We don’t flog you for that, anymore. Unless you ask nicely, of course.”

“No.” Francis said louder than was necessary. He cleared his throat. “No, thank you, Mr. Hickey, this will do. James, my apologies. Apparently my instructions to young Thomas were not amply clear. It looks as though we’re stuck with each other.”

James grinned a lopsided grin and joined him in the meagre cabin. “Don’t look so grim, Francis. It’s not as if I snore.”

“Well then,” Hickey said, flipping his papers back into place. “I’ll let you two settle in.” He winked, and walked back toward the ladder leading to the upper deck.

“What an absolute cock,” James said, once he was sure Hickey was out of earshot, “I think that’s one interview I’m going to leave to you, Francis.”

Francis sat down hard on the lower bunk and rubbed his eyes as he yawned mightily. “Do you think it would be a violation of our ethics approval if I just force-fed him questionnaire sheets until he choked?”

“If the ethics board approved _Irving’s_ lawsuit waiting to happen, I don’t imagine they’d bat an eye if you stuffed him with questionnaires and nailed him naked to the bow as a figurehead.”

Francis laughed wearily, his eyes refusing to stay open.

“There it is,” James said, and Francis could hear the smile in his voice.

“There _what_ is, Dr. James Fitzjames?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile, let alone laugh this entire trip. Except on the plane, just before we landed. You were looking at something on your mobile.” He paused, becoming serious, “Oh God, please tell me you’re not back with Sophia. Francis, no woman is worth two stress leaves in a _lifetime_ , let alone five years - ”

Francis opened one eye and fixed it on James, “I am _not_ back with Sophia.” He closed it again. “It was an amusing picture I’d been sent by a friend. Something foolish, and nothing to bother yourself about.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad to hear it. Now, if we’re going to be sharing a room, I suppose we have rather an important question to iron out.”

Francis groaned.

“Top or bottom?” James asked.

Francis opened both eyes. In fact, his sudden bout of white-hot shock must have shown on his face, as James clarified.

“Bunks, Francis. Good Lord.”

Francis released a breath he’d only just realised he’d been holding. “Right now, I would sleep on the floor, bunks be damned.” He pondered for a second and patted the mattress beside him. “I’ll take this one. If I’m up in the night, I won’t wake you.”

“Well then,” James said cheerily, “that’s easily settled, as I prefer the top.” He turned, and began unpacking. “Reminds me of my gap year trip to Nepal, when we slept in these remarkable tents that hung off the bare face of the Himalayas. We’d wake up every morning, have a yak butter tea, and _then_ -“

James looked back over to Francis, who was slumped in his bunk, his breathing deep, and slow, some of the finer lines eased from around his eyes. Ever so gently, James guided his head down to the pillow, his feet up to the mattress, and pulled a rough blanket from the foot of his bunk to cover him to the chest. Quietly as he could manage, he set out to find some food.

 


	4. Chapter 4

From their cabin, James wandered through passageways until he found himself in what must be the ship’s mess. There were two other men seated at the small, faux-wood veneered table, one familiar, one not.

“Mr. Goodsir! We meet again!” James extended a hand, which Goodsir clasped in one of the finest-boned, softest palms he’d ever seen or felt. Surgeons would envy this lad. “How was your flight over?”

“Please, Dr. Fitzjames. Call me Harry,” the young man smiled. “The flight was nothing at all. In fact, I was seated next to an archaeologist from Memorial University, returning home from a conference in London. We had a wonderful chat. For instance, did you know that stone from Labrador has been found at archaeological sites as far south as Maine? Or that Newfoundland was possibly one of the few _refugia_ against climate change for Arctic Indigenous cultures during the Holocene? Had I known we’d be putting off from such a place, I may have booked an earlier flight. To see Phillip’s Garden, or even L’anse Aux Meadows.”

James couldn’t help but catch the young man’s smile and enthusiasm. “Well, now that _I_ know, perhaps Francis and I will push back our return flights. And you must call me James.” He turned to the other man, and once more extended his palm. “Dr. James Fitzjames. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Thomas Blanky,” the man replied, shaking his hand firmly. “And, if I’ve understood our steward correctly, I’m afraid I owe you and your colleague an apology. I was meant to sail with the _Amundsen_ , but it sounds as though she’ll be up on blocks ‘til next season.”

“Ah,” said James, “You must be one of the ice chaps. It’s no trouble, whatsoever. Francis and I are old chums, and the close quarters will help us keep each other on task, I’m sure. Now, would either of you gentlemen know where a fellow might find a decent cup of coffee close by? I suppose a proper pot of tea would be too much to hope for.”

“More pubs than coffee shops in these parts,” Blanky chuckled, “which suits me just fine. I think I saw a Starbucks back down Harbour Drive, though.” He looked at his watch. “You have an hour or so before we shove off.”

************************************************************************

Francis woke from a dream in which he fled some sort of mammoth Arctic bear, whose growl shook the ice beneath his somehow too-slow, too-heavy feet. As he slowly grappled toward consciousness, the sound bled from dream to reality as the steady, deep hum of the _Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s_ engines.

So, they were off.

He’d hoped it would feel more like a severance, this break between his life on land and sea. But, the events of the last few days gradually bubbled to the surface, and with a heart that did not feel at all like a soaring albatross, the fine salt spray, or any of the other hundred or so similes he’d promised himself, he untangled his legs from the blanket he’d somehow managed to acquire, and made his way toward the scent of coffee.

As he approached the mess, he heard James, at full performance volume, telling the story about the pig, the pease garden, and the Mumbai outhouse.

His desire for a cup of coffee and something to eat was, remarkably, undiminished.  

He rounded the corner, and there was James, just getting to the part about the shit chute, and his rapt audience, one of whom, Harry Goodsir, he recognized. The other –

He looked the man hard in the face. “Thomas?”

The man turned to face him. “Who the f…Francis?”

“Thomas Blanky, is that really you?”

“Francis Fucking Crozier! What on God’s earth are you doing _here_!?” Blanky slapped the table, and hauled himself up from his seat, proceeding to wrestle Francis into a bear hug that put daylight between his shoes and the floor.  

“Trying to put as many miles as possible between myself and your bad ideas, Thomas!” Francis said, when he finally got his breath back. “Which I can see I’ve made a spectacular mess of.”

Thomas clapped him soundly on the back. “You always were a one to flee into danger, rather than out. With the lager, the lasses, and, if my memory serves me, some of the lads, as well. Look at you! You’re a bloody old man! What happened to all those flaxen locks the girls loved so much?”

Francis ran a hand through his somewhat scanty, greying hair. “Not befitting the dignity of a professor, Thomas.”

“Well, you could have just cut it, you idiot. No need to shed it completely.”

Francis sighed, and poked his friend lightly in the chest. “I will come up with a rebuttal to that cruel and completely unjust remark after I’ve had a well-earned cup of coffee.” He cast his eyes about for whatever pot or urn had drawn him hither, before smiling at the sight of two very large white and green paper cups in front of James.

“Is one of those for me?”

James, whose face was alight with amusement, replied, “Perhaps. My price is exactly one story about lager, lasses, and/or lads.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “I do not negotiate with terrorists.”

Relenting, James pushed one of the cups forward. “Medium roast, one milk, no sugar.”

“You’re a prince of men.” Francis said, taking a long draught.

“I thought I was a terrorist.”

“A man may be both,” he said, after another swallow. “For the time being, I forgive you.”

“Forgive me?! That coffee cost me five dollars!”

“Bill it to the grant, James. And now,” he said, turning back to Blanky with a smile, “My rebuttal as promised. You’re an arse, Thomas Blanky. A proper and absolute arse.”

“Well, if any man would know a proper arse when he saw one, it would be you,” Blanky laughed and turned to Goodsir. “Do you know what we used to call him back in school? ‘Franny Hill’.”

Goodsir looked back at him quizzically. “I’m not quite sure I – “

“We even had a little song…”

“Oh God, no,” Francis groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Blanky continued in sing-song, “Franny Crozier likes his skirt, kissed the girls and made them – “

“Thomas!”

“- flirt,” Blanky finished in the most innocent voice imaginable.

Francis exhaled, sliding his palms down his face, which was red to the ears. James, who’d up to that moment been vibrating with stifled laughter, lifted his coffee cup in a toast toward Blanky.

“Any friend of Francis’ is a friend of mine,” he said, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I can see there’s a lot about you I don’t know, Dr. Crozier.”

“Oh, that’s the way he likes it,” Blanky laughed. “Francis Crozier: mysterious and tortured soul. At least, until you put a whisky or two in him, and then he’ll tell you _exactly_ what’s on his mind. With his fists, if you make it doubles.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Francis said, pointing a defiant finger in Blanky’s direction.

James, who’d suddenly lost his smile, interjected. “Harry, you told Francis and myself a little bit about your research, but I'd absolutely love to hear more about persistent, er…things”

“Organic pollutants?” The young man lit up. “Why, it would be my pleasure, Dr. Fitzjames. You see, it’s all a matter of trophic levels…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief nighttime interlude

Francis lay awake in his bunk.

He shouldn’t have had that nap earlier, he told himself. That was why he was stubbornly awake. It had absolutely nothing to do with the tenuous stratigraphy of sheets, springs, and stuffing that put barely two feet between him and the peacefully sleeping subject of so many late nights. Nor was it at all connected to James’ slow breathing, nor indeed the soft sighs he made when he dreamt. And, what exactly did James Fitzjames dream about? The whole thing had sounded almost erotic to Francis but, on reflection, he acknowledged he was no impartial observer.

He allowed his thoughts to drift to their future plans. Tomorrow, there would be an all hands meeting where he and James, along with John Irving, would introduce themselves and their research, hopefully collecting a few signed statements of consent at the same time. They’d schedule interviews, prepare packages with questionnaires, pens, pencils, and honoraria, dine together, and then take the evening to enjoy the scenery on deck. At this time of year, there was no question they’d catch the sunset. They would watch together as golden waves set the clouds alight. He’d see the day’s last low beams throw James’ perfect bloody face into stark relief, turning his eyes from brown to amber as he tilted his head, parted his lips, closed the short distance between them…

He rolled over, thumping his pillow for good measure along the way. He shouldn’t have had that damned coffee. He really must cut back.

Running into Thomas had been a pretty turn of events. Over dinner, they’d done a bit of catching up, but nowhere near enough to make up for – good Lord, it was coming on two decades, now. Francis longed to unburden himself, to have at least one other single, solitary soul know the full, relentless calamity dogging his personal and professional life. As the ranks of the Canadian Coast Guard did not include therapists assigned to comfort ageing researchers in crisis, Blanky’s presence was a godsend. He mentioned that he’d managed to schedule a couple cruises up to whatever remained of the pack on one of the _Sir Wilfrid Laurier’s_ workboats. Francis made a mental note to ask whether he could accompany him on at least one. During their time together as students, Blanky’s blunt honesty had saved Francis from making a complete cock of himself on…well, the number of times wasn’t important. He was sure that if anyone could see a way past this mess with James and around the back-alley mattress fire that was now his career, it would be Thomas.

With that comforting thought, Francis finally slept, blissfully unaware that a looming chain of events, with its first link in tomorrow’s breakfast, of all places, was about to change his life.


	6. Chapter 6

Francis woke scant hours later to the cheerful synthetic marimba of his phone’s morning alarm. His instinct to hurl the cussed thing into the nearest bulkhead was very slimly surpassed by the sluggish realization that his and James’ introductory lecture would take place in three hours, giving him just enough time to shower, dress, breakfast, and run through his slides one last time. In a triumph of sheer willpower, he pressed ‘stop’ rather than ‘snooze’.

With a dull ache behind his eyes, he hoisted himself into a seated position, the chill of the deck against his bare feet doing something to rouse him. He stood, hitched the waistband of his shorts back to a comfortable orientation, and began casting about the cabin for his towel and toiletries.

“Francis?” a muzzy voice came from the bunks, “What time is it?”

Francis froze, as though James might not see him clad in just his smalls if he could only stay absolutely still in the darkness.

“It’s early, James,” he whispered, “Six o’clock. Go back to sleep.”

A sleepy grunt and the rustling of bedclothes as James turned back over gave him the all clear to seek out his scratchy travel towel, robe, and bottle of castile soap (unfragranced). Thus equipped, he made his way to the showers.

Surprisingly, there wasn’t a queue. Everybody else must be feeling just as jetlagged, he surmised. The only other person in the passageway was heading for the ladies’ shower – a dark-haired woman with a steely set to her jaw. She looked at Francis the way an entomologist might look at a newly discovered, albeit surpassingly ugly species of insect.

He nodded, she nodded, and they avoided one another’s gaze until she vanished into a room full of steam and vague fruity smells.

The men’s showers were also steamy, yes, but Francis found the smell more aptly described as a _fug_ than anything approaching fruity. He demurely wrapped his towel round his waist before removing his robe and padded off toward the shower stalls. He opened the door to one, moving to unravel his towel, when he noticed that the stall was very much occupied by a glistening Mr. Hickey, who turned to him, naked save for a prize-winning smirk.  

“Oh, good morning, Doctor. Cleanliness is next to godliness, is it not?”

“Christ!” Francis’ gaze hit the floor like a hot piece of lead. For good measure, he shielded his eyes with his free hand. “Don’t you know how to lock a damned door?!”

“Must have slipped my mind.”

“Yes, well, I have a feeling you’re slippery enough for us both.”

“That’d be the jojoba oil!” Hickey called out to Francis who was moving at speed to place a lockable door between the two of them. “Keeps my coat glossy!”

********************************************

Already more disquieted than any man should be by 7:30 in the morning, Francis sat down in the ship’s mess with a bowl of lumpy instant oatmeal and a plastic mug of coffee. Despite lecturing to thousands of students for countless hours over the many years of his academic career, public speaking always made Francis a bit queasy beforehand. The…incident with Hickey was doing nothing to settle his thoughts or his stomach, so he quietly poked at his oatmeal, allowing the low chatter of his shipmates to distract him.

He didn’t recognize the three men one table over, but he deduced from the beaver insignia on their semi-military uniforms that two of them were members of the Parks Canada dive team. The third was dressed much the same as Francis – slacks, dark blue fleece zip, glasses – and couldn't possibly be anything besides another academic. Their conversation was being held at a conspiratorial volume that Francis could just make out.

“Did you hear about Trotman at Northern College?” glasses asked the other two, who, with mouths full of oatmeal and coffee, shook their heads. “Application for tenure: denied. I guess they’d heard the rumours down in HR and brought a complaint up to the dean.”

“About time,” muttered one of the divers after swallowing.

“If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times,” said the first man, “leave that sort of thing to the grad students. That’s why they’re called _under_ graduate students.”

“So what’s going to happen?” asked the other diver, a slim man with brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

Glasses shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Billy boy. If you fail your tenure application, that’s it. You’re out. Dr. Trotman is going to be sent a-packing back to Toronto, and they’ll hire someone who knows how to keep their fingers out of the cookie jar. They’ve already advertised the position.”

“That was quick,” said the first diver, his thick, black eyebrows lifting a fraction of an inch.

“Well, not many PhDs dream of life in Iqaluit. They probably want to get an edge on applicants before all the other ads go up in September.”

Francis made a mental note to look up the ad. He had no idea who this Trotman was or what he did, but perhaps there was an opportunity there for one of the new PhDs from his own institution. He took a sip of coffee, and looked up as James entered the mess.

Which was exactly what they all looked like in comparison. How James could manage to look photo-ready at 8:00am the day after a transatlantic flight, all while sleeping in for an extra hour, was a mystery that caused Francis some considerable trouble. It probably had something to do with the valise full of delightful-smelling secrets that took up a substantial portion of James’ side of the cabin. He smiled when their eyes met, and Francis felt the room get warmer.

“Morning, roomie! The shower was a success, I see.”

Francis ran a hand through his now-fluffy hair and frowned. “About that. I could be reading too much into things, but I don’t think our steward cares for me too much. Or perhaps he does.”

James frowned as he sat down with his tray. “Hickey? I don’t think he cares for any of us overmuch. Why, what happened?”

Francis made a dismissive gesture, “Oh, nothing in particular. I – well, I ran into him in the showers this morning, and he…shared a bit too much with me.”

“Francis, that’s your euphemism voice. What actually happened.”

“He was just standing in a shower stall, James, completely nude and apparently covered in ho-ho-ba oil, whatever in blazes that is.”

“It’s pronounced _jojoba_ , and excuse me, WHAT?”


	7. Chapter 7

Their talk had gone well, all things considered. The crew appeared genuinely interested in Francis’ summary of colonialism in Arctic maritime venture, and actually laughed at his joke about their recent recovery of the _H.M.S. Investigator_ holding the record for slowest Coast Guard rescue in history. James, of course, had run ten minutes over his time, but with his easy, conversational delivery and carefully crafted slides nobody really noticed, until Irving cleared his throat meaningfully. By the end of his lecture, Francis was fairly certain everyone would leave the room feeling like an expert on historical postmodernism.

Even if their talk had gone poorly, at least it would have gone unremarked upon, as Irving’s talk jumped the rails before it even left the station. He’d prepared it on a Mac, without thinking to bring an adapter for the ship’s AV system. This meant he had to hunt down a flash drive and upload his slides to Francis’ laptop. In doing so, he’d neglected to embed his fonts, which caused all of his text to be converted to 72-point Arial. In gesturing with his pointer to emphasize some statement about mid-century French structuralism, he’d managed to lase the navigation officer directly in the eye. The awkward pause after he finally opened the floor to questions made Francis cringe in sympathy.

Finally, one slim, white hand went up in the back.

Relieved, Irving pointed at it “Yes, you there? Hickley, I believe it was?”

“Beg pardon, Dr. Irving, but it’s Hickey. And yes, I have a question. What role, if any, will your own relationships play in your report on our little company?”

“Excellent question, Mr. Hickey.” He paused to consider. “Well, in the interests of reflexivity, certainly my relationships with crew and researchers will figure…”

Hickey interrupted, “I meant more broadly, Doctor. Such as, your relationships at home. Surely a handsome man like you has some wife or girlfriend waiting for him on shore. Possibly even a child?”

Irving began to fidget absentmindedly with one of his belt-loops, and Francis was certain he could detect a sheen of sweat beneath the hair on his upper lip. The words of his reply came so quickly, they almost ran together.

“I don’t see how that’s at all relevant, next question please.”

But, there were no more questions. After ten excruciating seconds, Irving fairly dashed from the room. James gave Francis a look of such weariness he couldn’t help but laugh, and the two of them set about handing consent forms around the room.

After a few moments of anxiously waiting for Hickey to make his way over and drip innuendo all over the both of them, Francis noticed something curious. No matter where the two of them were in the room, James managed to stand directly between them, facing Francis with his back stonily turned to Hickey. The first two or three instances could have been a side-effect of many people navigating a small room largely filled with stacking chairs, but after ten minutes, he was fairly certain: James was in a Hickeystationary orbit around him, and it was delightful. His suspicions were confirmed with a troubling skip of his heart when he caught his colleague’s eye and James winked back at him, a small, secret smile playing across his lips.

By the time they were finished, they’d signed up most of the crew, along with the Parks Canada divers – a Mr. Henry Collins and Mr. William Orren, he’d learned — who’d pretty much _demanded_ to be included in the study as fellow government employees. When they finally got back to their cabins, it was with a stack of signed forms and a rough schedule worked out between the two of them. Somehow, they’d need to come across more cash for the additional participants, although creatively excluding Hickey from the study meant they likely only had to cover one. Francis strode into the cabin, feeling at least this burden lifted from his chest, when he heard a crinkle.

Looking down, he saw he’d stepped on a piece of paper that had been folded up and slid under their door. With a look of apprehension aimed at James, he bent to pick it up. It was one of their consent forms, filled out and signed by Hickey. Francis couldn’t quite tell if the ‘i’ in his signature had been dotted with a heart or an unfortunate smudge. He decided it was best not to think too much about it.

“Ugh,” James groaned, catching sight of the signature. “This is how the patriarchy hurts men, Francis!” he smacked the paper with the back of his hand. “Two attractive gentlemen, who happen to be very close friends – and that is all, mind you – share a room, and nothing must do for this…this swine, save that we’re secret lovers!”

Francis shook his head in an effort to recover from the emotional tilt-a-whirl of that last sentence. “I think you’re reading a bit much into things, James. It seems to me he’s just a garden variety shit-disturber. Anybody could have walked in on him this morning, and he probably just wants fifteen minutes off work for the interview.”

“My sweet, naïve Dr. Crozier, you do not understand this particular species of man quite like I do.” James mockingly assumed the air of an old safari guide telling long-ago tales of some distant Savannah. “I have met him, Francis, in many a club toilet when he thinks his date is stuck at the bar. I have been stalked by him across the vast wastes of internet dating sites. I have even had the misfortune of being stood behind him in a long lineup for kebabs at two a.m.” He dropped the act, “Look far enough into that chap’s past and you’ll find that he has some fairly wrong-headed ideas about his fellow men and some substantial personal baggage to work through.”

Francis toed James’ valise, which clinked lightly. “More baggage than you?”

“Jest all you like, but he’s going to be a thorn in our sides as long as he finds some fun in it.”

“James, if he’s the kind of man _I_ think he is, he finds the fun in getting you all het up like this.

James bit off his snappish reply at the root, paused, and took a deep breath. “I suppose I am getting rather hot and bothered. You’re right Francis, we just need to stay calm.”

“Precisely.”

“Show him we don’t really mind what he thinks of us.”

“Exactly.”

“Beat him at his own game, in fact!”

“Correct – wait, what?”

“What a capital idea, Francis! This is going to be fun.”


	8. Chapter 8

_Employment Opportunity: ARTS-2550_

_Northern College is accepting applications for the tenure-track position of Assistant Professor in the Department of Arctic History, Sociology, and Anthropology.  The successful candidate will have an active program of research and demonstrated excellence in undergraduate teaching and mentorship. Preference will be given to candidates whose research is focused on histories of Arctic colonization and/or Indigenous resistance and reconciliation. As a small, mixed department, we place strong emphasis on interdisciplinary collaboration – demonstrated ability to secure funding for multi-field research will be considered an asset. All applicants must submit a letter of interest, curriculum vitae, research statement, statement of teaching philosophy, a sample of academic writing, and contact information for three references no later than August 31. Submissions can be made through the Human Resources portal accessible through our departmental website,[www.northerncollege.ca/arts/AHSA](http://www.northerncollege.ca/arts/AHSA). _

_Northern College is located in Iqaluit, Nunavut. With a population of 7,740, Iqaluit is the capital of the Territory of Nunavut, and a truly Arctic city. The natural and cultural splendor of the eastern Arctic can be seen in nearby Sylvia Grinnell and Qaummaarviit Territorial Parks. The aurora borealis is a frequent sight during the long winter nights, which can be filled with physical and cultural activities at hotspots like the Unikaarvik Visitor’s Centre and our city’s new aquatics facility._

_Northern College is dedicated to workplace equity. All applicants will be considered, but priority will be given to Nunavut Inuit, women, visible minorities, and others who will contribute to our workplace diversity. Programs are offered in English, but support will be given to candidates wishing to become fluent in one of the Territory’s three other official languages (Inuktitut, Inuinnaqtun, or French)._

_***************_

Francis sat at their meagre cabin desk, mute in the warm glow of his ageing laptop. He was seriously reconsidering whether to forward this along to Bridgens for departmental distribution. Hell, the advertisement for his current position hadn’t been nearly so tailored to his interests, background, and inclinations.

There were impediments, of course. Questions about why a tenured associate professor would ever apply to become a lowly tenure-track assistant professor. Also, he’d have to find three people willing to write two pages about him that didn’t contain the words ‘liability’, ‘serious concerns’, or – what was the phrase James had used? – ‘slop-tart’.

This ruled out around 80% of his professional contacts.   

To complicate things, one of those letters would have to come from Sir John, otherwise he might as well submit an envelope filled with literal red flags. On the other hand, the prospect of relocating Dr. Francis RM Crozier several thousand frozen-solid kilometers from his faculty, department, and niece might just put the dean in an accommodating mood. In any case, reference letters and awkward questions would only become an issue if he was shortlisted. He had been far enough along in his promotion paperwork that the documents required would take all of an hour to reformat. What would be the harm in applying? And if he got the position, well it would be an opportunity to work somewhere…less conventional. An adventure, even.

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt with a knock on the door, which cracked open to reveal a smiling James, who’d lingered in the mess with a few others after supper.

“What visions have you seen in the mists, O servant of Apollo?”

“Not bloody many, James. The wireless on this ship is slower than payroll. Also, weren’t the Oracles of Delphi respectable women of good, sober character? I’m out of a job on several criteria there.”

“Well, I’m sure they’d make an exception,“ his eyes twinkled, and Francis braced himself, “as I can’t think of anyone Pythia than you, Franthith.”

“Did somebody give you an extra bar ticket, James?”

“Maybe so. But I’m also looking forward to our walk, in case you’ve forgotten. We haven’t had a second to ourselves since we boarded, and Harry Goodsir tells me we’re in whale country.”

Francis rose stiffly from the once-lime-green upholstery of the cabin’s office chair and took both their coats down from hooks on the wall.

“Blubbery white behemoths who roam in groups eating shrimp while loudly bellowing at one another? We _work_ in whale country, James.”

James beamed at him fondly. “I’m assured the genuine article is far more majestic and far less likely to call you up for a quarterly performance review.”

“I’ll bring my student evaluation dossier, just in case. I can always give it a burial at sea.”

***************

The scenery had been more beautiful than he’d expected. The sparkling waves did, indeed, set the clouds alight. And James, who more than earned his ratemyprofessor.com chili pepper the rest of the day was _made_ for the golden hour. Or, perhaps it was the other way around. To be frank, Francis was finding it difficult to tell one end of this thoughts from the other at the moment.

After dodging officers and equipment over two laps of the deck, James pointing out terns and gannets along the way, they came to rest against the rail near the ship’s prow. Slowly, Francis became aware that James was not looking out across the smouldering horizon, but at him. He turned to meet his gaze, the smile falling from his lips at the sight of his friend’s now-sober, very serious face.

“Francis, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Francis kept his face carefully neutral and said nothing as a sinkhole began rumbling in his chest.

“This is terribly bad timing, with the two of us cooped up together like this, but I feel like events have brought things rather to a head.”

Francis looked down into his hands. “Oh?”

“Yes, with Hickey, and with…well, with your plan to put him off through frequent and shameless public displays of affection.”

Francis shot James a look of surprise, “ _My_ plan?”

“Yes, Francis. And, while it would be a caper under any other circumstances, on reflection, I’m not sure it’s a good idea here. You see, Francis, the fact is –“

Francis sighed, and gazed down into the ship’s wake, “The fact is, it makes you uncomfortable to carry on so with a more senior colleague whose HR file is a yard thick. I completely understand, James.”

“Yes. I mean – what? No, Francis, that’s not quite...” He attempted to recover himself from emotions he thought had sunk for good along with his voice and testes. “I suppose what I mean is, would it make _you_ uncomfortable? For-for any reason?”

Francis chuckled to himself, “I’d hardly have proposed a plan I was uncomfortable with, now would I, James?”

“No, I suppose not.” James’ frown deepened.

“Anyway, why should I be uncomfortable?” Francis asked, his face again a careful blank. “No harm if it’s in jest, yes?”

“Of course, Francis,” James said, in an oddly dull voice. “All in jest.”

Silence fell between them as the sun’s last beams vanished in the west. The only sounds were the rumbling of the Sir Wilfrid Laurier, the rushing of the water along her sides, and a high yell mingled with low laughter as James delivered a hard pinch to Francis’ bottom.


	9. Chapter 9

Francis sat in the tiny bridge of the _Gannet_ , feeling rather like he’d been dropped into the streets of Pamplona, and had just heard a _viva San Fermin!_ somewhere in the distance. To distract himself from the hoofbeats, he'd turned to the solution of a more immediate problem.

And so Francis sat, silently wracking his brain for just the wry turn of phrase that would assure his companions – Thomas, young Harry, their somewhat forbidding bear guard, and their helmsman, Mr. Little –  that he was both aware of and completely unconcerned by how ridiculous he looked.

_Red Mustang._

_Wait until I tell Sir John I got around the Arctic in a red Mustang –_

_They don’t know Sir John._

_Wait until I tell my Dean I did all my travel in a red Mustang –_

_You could have just kissed him, you great idiot! He was right there._

_Nonsense. He’s a vision, you’re a basket case dressed like badly weathered saveloy. It was all part of this stupid joke. Now, focus!_

_Wait until I tell my Dean I did all my travel in a red Mustang –_

_False. This is a one-day cruise._

_Of course, the only red Mustang I’ve ever been in had to be borrowed –_

_Consistent with fact, but maudlin._

They’d been a week and a half at sea, and research closer to the pack had commenced. The _Wilfrid Laurier's_  workboat had been busily ferrying scholars, bear guards, sledges, and equipment back and forth to the ice edge. Somewhere in the bustle, Francis had made his desire for fresh air and fresh acquaintance known to Thomas, and now here he was. In a red Mustang.

Of course, Francis had noticed that each and every researcher making their way to and from the _Gannet_ had been clad in a red or blaze-orange jumpsuit suffering at various stages from salt and ill-use. He assumed they were some kind of unofficial Arctic field research uniform and didn’t think too much more about it. That is, until fifteen minutes or so before his own departure, when Thomas asked him why the hell he wasn’t dressed yet.

“What on earth do you mean, ‘not dressed’?” Francis looked down at himself, “I’ve got more layers than Russian theatre.”

“Well then, bring some of your waivers along, because if you go overboard or through the ice like that, you’ll be doing interviews in hell come supper. Come on, let’s see if anyone has a spare Mustang.”

A member of the crew managed to find them a spare flotation suit somewhere in the ship’s bowels, and just in time. But it was a particularly threadbare member of the species, faded red, missing one or two reflective strips, and intended for someone twenty pounds lighter and three inches shorter than Francis. After shedding his outer layer and working up a sweat he would never admit to, Francis wrestled the suit’s zipper closed, and made his way with as much dignity as he could muster to board the _Gannet_.

He was almost away scot free, when a familiar sound set him looking about in panic. Seven in the morning. It was seven in the morning, for christssakes. James had no _business_ being out of bed, let alone showered, combed, and generally improving the scenery on deck. Nor was this any time for pictures. A shutter sounded twice more before Francis could maneuver close enough for countermeasures. James thrust the phone deep into his blaze orange jacket while holding a defensive arm out toward Francis, who spoke in a deceptively even tone.

“Good morning, James. Could I trouble you for your phone?”

“Now, Francis, let’s be sensible. What if you were to be swallowed up by some terrible storm?”

“James - ”

“Or eaten by a ferocious bear?”

“James, the phone if you please.”

“We’ll need a photo for the memorial service, and I can think of no way I’d rather remember you.”

Francis paused, and for the second time that morning, looked down at himself.

“Is it really that bad?”

James considered, then commanded.

“Turn.”

“What?”

James made a spinning motion with his right index finger. “Turn.”

Francis huffed, but did as he was told, his heavy boots clunking against the deck.

James drew breath to speak, hesitated, then asked, “Is it meant to be…so fitted?”

“It’s the only one they had left.”

“I see. Well. As long as you tell whoever’s driving to keep their eyes above the beam, so to speak, all should be well.”

Francis gave him a skeptical look, and flicked a bright orange fold in the sleeve of James’ jacket “I doubt Mr. Little shares your mounting obsession with hideous technical fabrics.”

James took a step forward, closing the distance between them to a whisker. He leaned toward Francis, his lips almost brushing his ear.

“You know you’re right.” Without warning, he slid a palm up Francis’ chest to rest on his shoulder, “I think I rather do like this fabric.”

Under one layer of fine-spun merino wool, two layers of polar fleece, and a wave of heat rising from the knot in his chest, Francis froze.

“In fact, you should come straight down to our cabin when you return so I can have another look at it.” He placed his other hand against Francis' waist and squeezed gently. “You may need some assistance extricating yourself, in any case.”

Francis’ world had narrowed to a circle roughly one metre in diameter around two of them. Within it, his focus was particularly drawn to the angle of James’ jaw, close enough now to his mouth for several life-altering possibilities to present themselves. He’d just realized he should be doing something with his hands, when he heard his name bellowed from the direction of the _Gannet_. Like a lost hiker shining a torch into the trees, Francis was suddenly aware of many, many eyes around him, and the spell was broken. He hoarsely bid James a good morning, and resumed his walk to the work boat, his face the same colour as his suit.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get inside James' head.

James watched Francis cross the deck and make his way down into the _Gannet_. He’d seen that parody of unaffected academic hurry on several occasions – in the hallway directly outside Sir John’s office, for instance – but was mildly astonished to see it now. Several explanations presented themselves, each as seemingly improbable as James drinking a thermos of hot coffee on the polar sea.

Was it possible that Francis was a far better actor than he’d thought? He tried to imagine his dear, if somewhat surly colleague as a sort of untrained savant, capable of seamlessly acting like a man acting like he was trying not to act.

Somehow, the image wouldn’t gel. Francis was sophisticated, to be sure. Probably more sophisticated than he gave himself credit for. But he was no Stanislavski.

It was, of course, also possible that Francis was merely embarrassed at being handled like a questionably ripe mango in front of a non-zero percentage of the Canadian Coast Guard.  This explanation seemed much more probable, as it hinted at what James had always thought of as the central tension of Francis R.M. Crozier.

As with many of his more intimate character studies, his initially uncomplimentary analysis of Francis had started with his clothes. Put simply, Francis dressed like a man who couldn’t possibly give a single damn what other people thought of him. His clothes provided warmth. They provided decency. They provided pockets in which spare change could be shuttled to the ancient Snus tin in his top right desk drawer. They did not compliment, or flatter, or even subtly hint at an artist’s soul.

So James had been flabbergasted to hear the gossip surrounding Francis’ first leave of absence. He’d initially assumed the man had taken a sabbatical to somewhere dreary and boring. That, or he’d finally suffered a terminal hangover. When the sordid details started to dribble out around k-cups in the Faculty Lounge – an old love affair rekindled! Caught _in flagrante delicto_ in the Latin library! Heartbroken and drunk texting the Dean’s niece! – James was initially shocked and delighted. Stodgy, stolid Dr. Crozier: a lush _and_ a letch.

Yes, delighted at first.

Then confused.

As much as James had disliked Francis to begin with, he’d always respected the part of him that seemed unassailably immune to the opinions of others. The clothes were just a by-product. Underneath was a man who just as doggedly projected an aura of complete indifference to the world. In Francis, at least back then, James had seen a glimmer of something he aspired to: existential honesty. It was the existence of an utter bastard, yes, but at least he was true to it. Francis taught hungover and reeking. Francis swore at the department chair. Francis skipped faculty meetings like James skipped stones at the park.

And men like that didn’t ruin themselves for love.  

Lust, maybe. The cocky, confident men he’d seen broken for behaviour with students that would make a pavement catcaller blush were too numerous to count. And that was just the ones who’d been caught. But Sophia was no student under Francis’ thumb. And, by all accounts, she’d seemed to heartily return his affections. At least, at first. And Francis had taken his leave quietly. No uproar. No excuses. No recriminations. It didn’t make him a saint, but it made him something other than James had thought him, and that stuck like grit in his craw.

Mysteries were well and good. James found they added a delightful frisson to one’s day. But reveling in the exploits of the as yet unidentified Faculty Lounge Pudding Bandit was one thing. Being hopelessly ignorant of the character of one’s colleague was another.

So, James set to this new problem with the same instruments he’d applied to nearly all personal and professional complications since he was a child: charm, wit, and – most important of all – persistence. He started sitting in on Francis’ classes, and was surprised to find himself looking forward to them more each week. Drying out had made a marked improvement to Francis’ lecturing, which had devolved to reading monotonously from the course text in the days before his leave. Now, he paced around in front of the room delivering significant dates, places, and names between wryly-told historical anecdotes, some of which even James had never heard.

Of course, James deeply disagreed with some of his interpretation – specifically regarding the motivation of the Elizabethans – and began filling Francis’ long pauses for student feedback with a few of his own questions. Francis seemed annoyed at first. And, why not. James had never attempted to disguise his dislike for him. After all, he had every reason to believe it would slide off Francis like a tossed drink. In time, however, James seemed to earn his colleague’s grudging respect. Their in-class arguments spilled over, first into one of the campus coffee shops, then into late nights in their offices. As he spent time with the man, James arrived at the solution to his riddle. They’d just had a blazing, knock-down, drag-out row about how much Martin Frobisher actually knew about gold prospecting, when it hit him.

It wasn’t that Francis didn’t care. Or rather, no, that wasn’t quite it. He truly _didn’t_ care. He didn’t care about most things. Appearances. Decorum in faculty meetings. Gossipy new professors who looked sideways at his shoes. He didn’t care because he couldn’t. Because everyone has only got so many fucks to give and when Francis gave a fuck about something, goddamnit, he gave all of his fucks in one great fucking go. That was the kind of man who sent one-word replies to impassioned requests for deadline extensions and nearly broke in two when a woman didn’t love him back.

James realized all of this standing red-faced in his office across from his new friend, who was still barking about four out of five alchemists. He realized that he was a part of something that this clever, funny, and, god help him, kind and handsome man cared about, and that maybe some of that great heap of enthusiasm might someday be cast upon him as well. He realized that he was in very, very deep trouble.

Francis must have realized something, too, because just as quickly as he was there in James’ life, he was gone again.

Another leave.

Something of the man must have rubbed off on him during their time together, because James felt the distinct urge to drown himself in whisky (well, maybe gin), and send ill-advised text messages.

Only, these days Francis didn’t text.

Cursing Francis, cursing Sophia, and cursing pretty much anything that crossed his path, James muddled on marking the exams from their course, preparing grant applications, and making bad decisions at worse nightclubs.

When he came back a few weeks later, Francis looked well. James ran into him at one of the parking pay stations near their building on a cool morning; their breath mingled with the fog. James lost any desire or ability to turn a phrase when Francis flashed him a genuine, if somewhat embarrassed grin. Without thinking, James pulled him into a tight hug.

“Francis! I’m so glad to see you! Are you back?”

With a relief that surprised him, James felt Francis ease into the embrace. A hand patted him gently between the shoulder blades.

“I’m back.”

Thinking of that hug brought James back into the present. Yes, Francis cared. But did he red-faced-stiff-walk care what the crew of the _Sir Wilfrid Laurier_ thought of his dignity or relationship with James?

The answer – a resounding ‘likely not’ – brought James to a third explanation for his flustered behaviour.

It was by far the one he preferred.

 


End file.
